Driftnet Page 7

  ‘Rhona?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There will be an envelope in tomorrow’s post,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘As you’ll see, the murdered boy has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘With us,’ she corrected him.

  He ignored that. ‘I hope this is the end of the business.’

  Rhona put down the phone without answering.

  Of course, Edward would prefer to deal with this by letter. Speaking directly he might have to use Liam’s name, or worse, refer to him as our child. Edward would never do that. Edward had always distanced himself from the event like a bad smell. And so it was. A bad smell come back to haunt him.

  Rhona swallowed the remains of her wine and poured another glass. The cat grunted with displeasure and jumped off her tense body, opting for the more reliable comfort of the hearthrug instead.

  Outside, the sky had cleared. Evening sun shone through the open curtains. The room looked comfortable and empty. Like my life, she thought.

  Strange to look back and see emptiness where once she had seen success. Getting her degree. Studying for a PhD. The freedom to choose where she wanted to work. The delight in being given the responsibility for her own lab. Buying the flat. Money in the bank. Nothing. I have just been putting in time, she thought… until now.

  The phone rang again. Rhona cursed herself for not switching on the ansaphone. Then it struck her that it might be Edward, calling back with something he’d forgotten to tell her. Something important.

  The phone rang again more insistent this time. Rhona lifted the receiver.

  ‘Is that Dr Rhona MacLeod?’

  It was a man’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is going to sound really silly,’ the man hesitated, then cleared his throat nervously. ‘We met yesterday in the rain. My name’s Gavin MacLean.’

  ‘We shared a taxi.’

  ‘I wonder whether you would like to come out with me tomorrow night to see a film,’ he went on, before she could answer. ‘I quite understand if you think I’m a nut and say no.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘I mean I don’t think you’re a nut,’ Rhona laughed.

  ‘That’s a relief. So you’ll come?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  ‘Look. Just a film. No strings.’

  She thought about it. She would have the letter tomorrow. She didn’t need to stay in any more. She needed to be normal again. He seemed nice. It was just a film.

  ‘Okay.’ What was she doing? ‘Just a film.’

  ‘Great. I’ll pick you up about eight?’

  ‘Right.’

  It wasn’t until after Rhona had spent half an hour convincing herself why she’d agreed to go out with a strange man (she would have reason to celebrate tomorrow, because she would know where her child was), that she suddenly began to wonder how Gavin MacLean knew her name and her home number.

  Chapter 10

  The night that Rhona phoned had begun well for Edward. He and Fiona were holding a dinner party with Sir James Dalrymple among the guests. Edward knew he could count on Fiona’s support. Unlike Rhona, Fiona understood the importance of playing the game. He stood at the door and surveyed his sitting room. June sunlight shone in through the French windows and danced across the deep blues and pinks of the Chinese rug, the chintz covered sofas and the polished mahogany furniture. This room symbolised everything he had worked for, from the silk framed windows overlooking the trim lawn, to the flower vases (expensive vases, expensive flowers), and the well stocked drinks cabinet.

  Without Fiona, her contacts and her family, he might never have got this far. He was good at his job, but there were many others who were just as good. Fiona had made the difference.

  Through the open double doors to the dining room he could see her, still in her dressing gown, putting the last touches to an already perfect table. As she bent to rearrange the centre-piece, Edward admired both his wife’s attention to detail and her exposed thigh.

  Edward had already poured Fiona two whiskies, ostensibly with plenty of water, but in reality rather strong, being hopeful that some time between arranging the table centre and the donning of her little black number, she would let him make love to her.

  Fiona was looking over at him, wanting him to give the table arrangement his final approval. Edward gave her the response she was looking for. Then he inclined his head towards the stairs and their bedroom above. Fiona smiled.

  Edward had met Fiona at a drinks party held by his firm and a Corporate client, in the client’s luxury offices overlooking the Clyde. He was feeling pleased with himself that evening, having completed an overseas cash transaction that had saved this particular client a fortune in UK tax. And the truth was, he was glad to be out of the apartment. The situation between himself and Rhona had hit rock bottom.

  Fiona looked so good in black. It was something about the combination of upmarket blondeness (that one can only get from a good public school) and lightly tanned skin. That particular evening the black dress was cut to show the outline of Fiona’s buttocks.

  Rhona and he had not had sex in a long time. Edward suddenly felt like a teenager with his first erection.

  Halfway through the evening, she had invited him to come up to her office, two floors above the party. As Executive Secretary to one of the principal Directors, she enjoyed an elevated and well paid position.

  Edward had leaned Fiona against the imposing mahogany desk and slipped down the thin straps of her dress. Her breasts were small and firm.

  Fiona released herself from his mouth to slide down and rest her face in his crotch and Edward had a terrible desire to let his prick erupt there and then.

  But Fiona’s timing had been perfect.

  She had turned from him and bent over the table, raising her soft black hill into the air. And so Edward had his wish. Across the leather-topped desk he opened Fiona’s tight little buttocks and slid inside. And if the party below didn’t hear his cries of delight, it meant they had the eminently suitable music turned up much too loud.

  Even now, all these years later, Fiona had the same effect on him. There had been other women since then, as he knew there had been men with Fiona. But they had stayed together. They both knew they were stronger together than apart.

  The hum of conversation around the dining table confirmed the success of Fiona’s seating plan. There were eight guests, all involved in one way or another with the by-election campaign. Opposite Edward, Fiona was deep in conversation with Judge Cameron MacKay. Fiona had already told Edward that the 65-year-old had difficulty locating his own knee at times and his hand was often to be found stroking the female thigh next to him, which tonight was Fiona’s.

  Edward had already dropped his napkin in order to see just how energetic Judge MacKay’s hand was that evening. What he saw made him marvel at his wife’s calm demeanour.

  The rest of the group was made up of two business clients (Party supporters) and a number of activists, the most attractive of whom was Sarah Anderson. Sarah, Edward had decided, was a dyke, since she had never given him the slightest indication she found him attractive. Still, he thought, looking appreciatively across the table at her, even dykes have breasts and there was something rather enticing about the shape of hers beneath the green silk dress.

  On the left of Sarah sat Ian Urquhart, Edward’s Private Secretary. Ian wasn’t interested in Sarah. His inclinations lay elsewhere. Tonight Fiona had placed him beside Sir James Dalrymple.

  And, thought Edward, it looked as if Fiona had been right about Sir James after all.

  When the phone rang, the party had been about to adjourn to the conservatory for a nightcap. Fiona gave Edward a nod and went to answer it, annoyed, he could tell, that Amy hadn’t got there already. By the time she came back, Edward had ushered their guests into the conservatory and settled them with their drinks. It was just as well, or th
ey would have seen Fiona’s face.

  ‘It’s a woman,’ she said coldly. ‘She wants to speak to you.’

  Edward used one of his, ‘probably a constituent’ sort of smiles, but Fiona wasn’t convinced that easily.

  ‘You’re not an MP yet,’ she reminded him as she swept past and into the conservatory.

  When Rhona spoke Edward knew she had been crying. It struck him as strange that after all these years something inside him hurt because of that. She was rambling on about a birthmark and a dead boy.

  When she paused for breath, Edward found himself promising to find out what she wanted to know. Anything to shut her up and get her out of his face. He said goodbye and lifted the whisky glass from where he had laid it a few minutes before, when life was sweet. His hand was actually trembling. The jolt of straight whisky failed to dissolve the feeling of dread that gripped him. Edward made an effort to organise his thoughts, trying to get things into perspective. Rhona had always been neurotic, especially after the baby was born. Fiona had never been like that. Fiona had taken birth in her stride. Had been out playing tennis a few days later. But not Rhona. Months of coldness and rejection. It had been torture. Edward flinched at the memory. Thank God he had moved on. And now the scene in the Art Gallery - all he’d done was make a simple request. He should never have gone near her. It had been a mistake. Now of all times!

  Edward downed his whisky and returned to the dining room to refill it from the decanter. Then he took a deep breath and walked into the conservatory.

  He nodded serenely at his wife and sat down next to Sarah Anderson, who for once gave him a welcoming smile. He smiled back, making a mental note that certain priorities must be addressed: nothing (not babies, dead boys or even seduction) must stand in the way of the conversation he meant to have with Sir James Dalrymple tonight.

  Chapter 11

  The bedroom was untidy. There were discarded tee-shirts on the floor and three empty glasses on the bedside table, sticky with diet coke. His sock drawer sat open and there was the smell of old cigarette ash. He’d been hiding the fag ends in the drawer along with his socks. Now there were too many of them in the box and every time he opened the drawer to get clean socks, Jonathan could smell them. Since his mother had ‘handed over his room to him’ as she put it, it had got easier to hide evidence of his smoking. Now Amy, their housekeeper, didn’t bring the clean washing into the room any more. Instead she left it in a pile on the floor outside the door. Since she’d stopped coming in he didn’t need to dispose of the fag ends one at a time. But now if he put them in the kitchen bin, Amy would notice the smell and tell his mother.

  Jonathan took a last drag, stubbed the cigarette out on the ledge and closed the window, adding the dog end to the overflowing box. Thinking about what he would do with them was about all he could manage at the moment.

  He went over to his wardrobe and rummaged about at the back. Below him the party had moved into the conservatory. He’d heard the dining room chairs being scraped across the parquet floor and the rumble of conversation as they all moved out. Then the phone rang and Jonathan hoped for a brief moment it might be Mark. A glance at the clock told him Mark would be out and about by this time. Phoning Jonathan would be the last thing on his mind. You wouldn’t catch Mark staying in on a Saturday night.

  The hall was directly below Jonathan’s bedroom, so he always knew when someone was coming up the stairs. It also meant he could listen in to phone calls. Tonight he could tell his father was pissed off with the caller from his clipped tone.

  Jonathan found the vodka bottle stashed in a boot at the back of the wardrobe and pulled it out. He had agreed, when they acquired it from the drinks cabinet, to share it with his sister Morag. But despite being only ten months older than him, she seemed to be able to get drink when she was out, anyway. Jonathan walked over to the three glasses, selected the least sticky one and poured himself a shot. The fresh orange he’d mixed it with didn’t smell too good and he wondered whether it had gone off.

  The lights from the conservatory lit up the garden. If he stood very close to his window and pressed his face against the glass, he could make out the two seats closest to the French windows that opened onto the lawn. The young woman he’d let in earlier was there. Jonathan squirmed, remembering how friendly she had been when he’d opened the door to her and how, once he’d noticed she had no bra on, he’d been too embarrassed to answer any of her questions.

  Now her attention was directed towards his father who had on his special ‘attractive woman’ face. Jonathan took a slug of the vodka relishing the blast as it slid down. Then he put down the glass and unzipped his jeans and took out his thing. It lay there flopped to one side, pale and blue veined against the denim. He reached down and touched it with the cold glass and it jumped away from him in annoyance. Outside the girl was standing up now, her face turned towards the house, the light green gauze material of her dress folding about her breasts. He stared at her, imagining what her tits would look like under that dress, while he rubbed the cold glass up and down his prick.

  It was always better to wait until his parents were asleep, before he logged on. Usually he had to put up with Morag coming home and telling him things she had or hadn’t done that night, but she was in already. She’d come home about midnight and gone straight to her room, so he didn’t have to suffer a blow by blow account of her night’s exploits. After that he usually had to sit through all the snorting and panting from his parents’ room. Ever since his father had been offered the candidacy he’d been poking away merrily. Jonathan wondered how his mother put up with the smarmy bastard. At least he wouldn’t have to sit through that noise tonight. His parents had been at it earlier. He’d heard them when he came up to his room.

  Now the house was asleep, the only hum of life coming from the pale blue computer screen in the corner.

  Jonathan’s first thought was to send Mark an email. Something that would make him laugh, something about his parents having it off before the dinner party. Mark usually checked his emails when he came in, however late it was.

  Jonathan clicked on the mail icon and waited.

  There was always an iffy moment when the buzz and whine of the modem connecting shattered the quiet and Jonathan would hold his breath, waiting for the sound of his father’s step on the landing. But tonight he was well out of it. Jonathan waited till the whine finished, then clicked on the in-basket.

  There were two emails waiting for him.

  When Jonathan first realised that his father was a wanker it had come as a shock. When he was small Edward hadn’t been around much. His mother always said he was working. And when he did come home, he was tired. So Morag and he went to their mother for what they needed, or more often to Amy, who had worked in the house for as long as Jonathan could remember. Amy was a pal but she had strict ideas of right and wrong. Drinking and smoking and sex ‘at his age’ were wrong, and Jonathan had never built up enough courage to ask her when they became right. When he was small, he stayed with Amy while his mother was ‘out’. Where ‘out’ was, Jonathan never knew, but his mother always smelled nice when she went there. It wasn’t work, he knew that, but when she came home she was ‘exhausted’ and would collapse on the sofa and ask him to bring her the drink she’d taught him to make. One thing he did know was that his family was respectable, well off, and Tory. They didn’t like blacks, browns (except tans gained on foreign holidays), yellows or lefties. They thought you should stand on your own two feet (even if you only had one), and that a move to London was going up in the world.

  When Jonathan was about ten he’d been brought home by a friend’s mother earlier than expected. The car dropped him at the big gate and when he saw his father’s car sitting outside the house, he suddenly didn’t want to go in and be questioned (they called it having a conversation), so he’d decided to go and check out his SSTD (special secret tree den) before he went in the kitchen to look for Amy. He’d slipped across the front lawn and round the
side of the house into the orchard, then ran through the thickness of apple blossom, darting this way and that as if he was being followed and slid through the door in the garden wall, with one last glance to convince himself that the enemy hadn’t seen his escape. Already he could hear the sound of the river and the trees were crowding in on him with rustling voices. Jonathan loved the wood. It wasn’t like the front of the house, with its flowering rhododendrons dotting the anorexic lawn. Here things grew just the way they wanted. Big and bold, heavy and sweet. Jonathan could smell them growing, especially when he lay down in his den, his face close to the earth.

  He had walked quickly, anxious to get to his den. The ancient pine tree that marked its location was twisted with years, its trunk split in two, to form younger branches. On three sides of it huddled gorse and juniper and patches of thorny brambles. On the fourth side, the path opened up into a patch of grass and sunlight. Jonathan circled the tree until he was out of sight of the path, then threw himself on the ground and slid along on his belly, avoiding the sharp thorns of the brambles. The ground began to dip below him and he rolled down into his den with a grunt of delight.

  He was lying there looking up at the thick canopy of foliage that was his roof, when he heard voices. He sat up a little, enough to peer out through his special peephole at the couple who walked towards him along the path. The woman was young and pretty. She wore a bright blue dress lit up by the sunlight that dropped down through the rustling leaves. She laughed, a tinkling sound that made the hairs on the back of Jonathan’s neck stand up.

  Then he heard the man’s voice. It was his father.

  Jonathan pressed himself to the ground, his heart thumping so hard that he knew they must hear it. But they had no ears or eyes for anything but themselves. When the talking and laughing stopped, there was something in the sudden silence that made Jonathan squirm against the earth floor, twisting round to get a better view. The woman was backed against the tree so that he could only see a line of leg on either side. There was a frantic scrabbling sound and then one of her legs was up and round his father and the other was in mid air, swaying wildly with each pumping motion. Now all he could hear was the squeak and moan of her voice.